


Oh What We See When We Finally Stop Looking

by iwtv



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Divergence after 2x08, Character Death, Dark!Thomas, F/M, M/M, Reunion, Reunion Sex, Revenge, Thomas to the rescue, escaping Charlestown, even though he doesn't know it, fix-it AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwtv/pseuds/iwtv
Summary: So I've FINALLY finished the fic based on Dreamingpagan's (aka @flintsredhair) fantastic tumblr tags about wanting an AU that explores Thomas's dark side, where he is the one who gets revenge against Peter Ashe instead of James. Also I don't think at this point it's in me to write these three without making it a fix-it fic, so here's another one. xD Oh, and I went ahead and posted the first two parts instead of one ;)Comments craved as always, enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DreamingPagan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingPagan/gifts).



I. Liberation

 

When Thomas stepped outside of his cell he had to remind himself it wasn’t to go to the courtyard for the hour’s worth of sunshine once a week, or to be thrown into an ice cold tub for “therapy.” Nor was it to be manhandled by one of the guards, punishment for disobediences as slight as not finishing a plate of food. No, this time when the heavy iron door swung open the guards did not grab hold of his arms because Vincent Hamilton, his younger brother, was standing there, ready to take him out of this hell.

He listened as Vincent quietly recounted to him their plans, both short-term and long-term. Thomas only half-listened, too unnerved by the thought that this was all a jest and the guards would come for him any moment and throw him back into his cell.

Instead they made it to a carriage waiting at the end of the long walk across the asylum grounds. Reality finally began to sink into his mind. He listened to Vincent’s reassurances as the carriage took off and away from the asylum.

“You were right about the amount it would require to gain certain party members attention,” Vincent was saying. “It seems I’ll always be inferior to father, both in title and in influence. But it got the job done. I’m still so very sorry it couldn’t be done sooner, dear brother.”

Thomas forced a smile, listening to him as though through a tunnel that wasn’t quite in his reality yet.

“I hold no grudges, Vincent,” he replied after a moment. “Taking on the earl and the entire Naval Admiralty would have been impossible even for me, had I been in your shoes. I’m just thankful both parties seemed to lose interest after ten years. More important things on their mind, I’m sure.”

Vincent gave him a severe frown.

“Our father was the only reason the navy even cared for so long. I’m glad he’s gone, and I know you are too.”

Thomas regarded the stern look on his brother’s face. The two of them were alike in personality, including their straight-forward rhetoric. Thomas allowed his lips to tick upward before turning to look out the tiny window as other, more oppressive thoughts stirred his mind. They traveled in silence for a time, until Vincent asked him, “May I ask how it was you managed to keep yourself so sound of mind while in that hell hole?”

“I imagine you had a lot to do with that,” said Thomas smoothly, though he remained gazing out the widow. He was still getting used to the sky, the fresh air, the people. Life.

“Your monthly stipend allowed me to eat better than most of the poor souls in that place, allowed me more water as well. Your influence gained me that, at least,” Thomas finished.

“Of course,” said Vincent. “But surely you had to have some sort of distraction, something to focus on so as not to be driven into complete despair?”

Thomas flicked a glance to him. His brother was deeply curious. Their conversations while he was still a prisoner had been limited by time and necessities and left little room for other discussion, save for Thomas’s constant reassurances he was in no immediate danger, which he had lied about because honestly every day he wondered if it would be his last.

“I despaired, Vincent,” said Thomas. “In ways I hope you’ll never know. But I did have things to occupy my mind with. They are dark things, deeds that have yet to be done. Deeds that, with your help, I intend to see done.”

Thomas turned his attention fully to his brother, whose brows came together in confusion, eyes searching all over Thomas. 

“We won’t be residing at your country estate for me to recover. I am well enough. Nor will we attempt to wrest back my own estate downtown. We sail for the American colonies, across the vast expanse of the Atlantic, as James and my wife once did. And once we arrive at the colony of Charlestown, I am going to kill Peter Ashe.”

II. All that matters

 

He’d listened to Vincent’s cries of protest the rest of the way, somehow managing to tell the driver to change course and take them to an inn on the outskirts of London. They stayed there the night while Thomas more carefully told his brother his intentions. Vincent was the only family member left to Thomas whom he fully trusted, a trust partially borne out of years of banding together to resist their father.

And then of course came the moment when it was necessary to bring up the most trusted secret between them and how desperately Thomas needed Vincent’s help.

“You’ve known what was I was since we were boys,” said Thomas. “You’ve known and you’ve loved me still. I told you about James in the letters, about my guilt over what happened, and still you love me. Vincent, if ever I needed to ask you for a favor, this is it.”

Vincent had listened, though Thomas could tell it was with forced patience. Still, as he had hoped, his brother was swayed by his argument—except for the part that included murder. He insisted Thomas could use political means to persuade Ashe as well as their past friendship, but Thomas knew those days were well past.

And even if he countered Vincent’s every point to the contrary, even if some part of him screamed that it was the right thing to do, the moral thing, he pushed it all away. He didn’t want to do the right thing. He didn’t want to consider morality or ethics or anything else he’d read from the pages of the philosophers who had so long guided him. Even when Vincent told him that he was not capable of such a vile act Thomas would not be swayed, though he himself was now constantly thinking of just how he was to kill another man. Whenever he felt himself faltering he would picture the faces of those lost to him and his resolve would return, spurred on as ever by the now familiar feeling of hate.

And, later that night, when he quaked with fear at the thought of deeds yet undone he need only picture *his* face, that dark copper hair and eyes as vast as the ocean. He could still picture James smiling and how it deepened the lines around his mouth. Softened his stare. 

He forced it all away and instead focused on what he had never seen of James, of the pain and agony that must have been there the day he learned of his lover’s fate. Through letters Vincent had kept him informed of what had happened, of how both James and Miranda had been banished from England on his father and Admiral Hennessy’s orders. It had not taken much to draw a line back to Peter Ashe, the only other soul who had known of their tryst.

He pictured Miranda’s anguish as well, of the two of them together in anguish. It was what had kept him going these past ten years, driving his hatred and also his anguish, both of which reached a pinnacle within himself he had not thought possible.

With no proper outlet provided him within the confines of his cell room, the truth was Thomas *had* gone mad. Briefly. Not true madness, but close enough. He screamed into his pillow, clung to fistfuls of his hair until he pulled out chunks of it. He’d even taken to raking a lost nail across his arm during the worst of it. 

Never with such anguish had he both wanted the pain and to be rid of it at the same time. 

Thinking of he and James together, of soft caresses and fingertips and things they whispered to one another in their most private moments and how none of it would ever happen again drove the nail across his skin. He saw the beads of blood through hot and blurry eyes.

He recounted it all to his brother, leaving nothing out. It was well past midnight when Vincent—his dark brown eyes filled to the brim—finally nodded and conceded to his plan. Thomas looked away from the sorrow and pity in Vincent’s eyes. Neither were of use to him anymore. He no longer felt much where he himself was concerned. 

“All that matters,” he said, “is getting to Ashe.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas arrives in Charlestown and carefully plans out his next move with his brother. All seems to go smoothly...until unexpected guests from Nassau show up at Peter Ashe's house. (Sorry for the delay; the holidays you know.)

III. How far to the bottom

 

The journey overseas was long and arduous. The ship they were on was a large sloop, filled with both supply cargo and human cargo, its passengers mostly men of some learned skill hoping to make it in the New World. There was a single woman and child aboard, going to join up with a husband and father. Thomas paid little mind to any other information. He spent his days and nights mostly in solitude. He found he could only tolerate brief conversations with the other passengers. Even his brother fell into this category.

He supposed it saddened him. He used to love engaging with strangers. It was amazing what one could learn in a day with just the lightest rubbing together of minds. Rich or poor, it had never mattered to him. People were people, after all, and each one had something to contribute to his pool of knowledge about the world he lived in.

Now, however, as he stood against the portside railing and watched the ship slice through the cold grey Atlantic he felt little for any of them. Not the men who seemed friendly, not the men who seemed unfriendly. Even the single child—a boy of about eight or so—could not capture his interest when he approached Thomas with an offering of a sliced apple. Thomas had taken a piece to be kind, doing his best to smile at the boy. He’d forgotten how little encouragement children needed. The boy had talked and talked, first about the ship and then his father and the New World and how he was going to see wild horses in the New World.

Thomas stayed silent and finally the boy had given up. Watching him walk away Thomas felt a terrible pang of guilt wash over him. He turned back towards the sea and closed his eyes, breathing in the salt air. How different it smelled from London. He wondered if his wife had made a good passenger over water or if she had gotten sea sick. James would have helped her…

Thomas sighed and stopped the train of thought. Everything ached. He felt tired for no real reason. He stood at the railing until the sun began to set and his legs to hurt. The water below him was one giant mass of gray, with no form or shape or end. He wondered how far to the bottom. He wondered if James and Miranda could still be alive. He wondered how they might have died, far away from civilization.

He turned away from the railing once the cold air had chilled him. His fingertips were almost numb from gripping the wood.

IV. Gluttony

 

When they were less than two days away from the docks of Charlestown Thomas made a conscious effort to quit his brooding and to focus on revenge. He had played the scenario in his head a thousand times already, thinking of dozens of different ways it might play out.

He sat down with Vincent in the galley and together they went over all the information Vincent had gathered over the last several months as to Peter’s whereabouts.

Lord Ashe had left London less than year after everything had ended. He had been offered a governorship over the Carolina colonies. Vincent was unable to figure out exactly who had offered it but they both agreed that their father, Earl Alfred Hamilton, had most likely played a part. Thomas had never made it a secret to Peter how much he loathed his father, though Lord Ashe and the earl had always gotten along. In fact, there had been times when the two of them had had dealings Thomas wasn’t aware of. The seeds had been planted in his mind then. Needless to say, then, it had unnerved Thomas. And it unnerved him more than ever that he, Peter’s closest friend, should be thrown away in a madhouse by his father and then Peter himself suddenly granted a grand opportunity. The entire affair reeked of his father’s scheming.

“So this entire endeavor is going to rely on discretion,” Vincent was saying to him now. Thomas blinked, forcing himself back into the conversation. He needed to stop living in his head quite so much. He was, after all, a part of the world again. He supposed.

“Discretion, yes,” he replied, taking a drink of water and a bite of bread. “Obviously the governor in any area as wild as the colonies will have men employed to protect him. And he most certainly lives in a mansion, with an estate. Possibly even a plantation with slaves by this time. In order to be discreet in the open I will have to assume another identity.”

“Thomas, this is so very dangerous,” Vincent interjected passionately. “I’m not half as concerned over you getting inside his estate as I am terrified of what will happen next.”

As calmly as he could Thomas explained how he would be prepared for various scenarios. Before they had left England he had procured two very small pistols, scarcely larger than the palm of his hand. They could be hidden within the confines of his gentleman’s coat or in his waistband and retrieved with relative ease. He had spent hours practicing pulling them out and aiming them and how to cock the hammer will minimal sound. He also had purchased a knife off of one of the hardier sailors on board the ship. He didn’t need to worry about being close to Peter; he could kill him from afar just as easily.

“And what if you don’t kill him right away? What if a scuffle ensues? His men are alerted. Then what?” asked Vincent.

“Then I do my best to finish the job.”

Thomas saw how much his brother wanted him to quit the entire idea. Long ago Vincent had been good at talking him out of questionable business dealings and questionable people. But Thomas had spent years thinking about the coming days.

He finished his water in one long draught, suddenly wishing it were wine or some other spirit.

“Your best?” Vincent asked with dismay. He was looking at Thomas—not for the first time since they’d been reunited—as though he were a complete stranger.

Thomas nodded and smiled grimly.

“If I die, then I die. At the very least I can hope to wound him; a small sample of the pain and suffering he has caused me. I only wish I could prolong his suffering.”

Vincent looked aghast, blinking furiously.

“Thomas! You don’t mean that.”

“I damn well do. He took everything from me. Everything!”

He slammed a fist down on the table. Vincent jumped. Whatever he saw etched into his older brother’s expression made him draw back.

“Sorry,” Thomas mumbled, although he was not. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find something with a bite to it.”

He left Vincent unceremoniously and walked over to a group of men drinking at the back of the galley. There was no wine, of course, but with a display of large gold coins he was able to buy one of their bottles of rum. He returned to his hammock in the next room and drank until he felt light-headed. He dozed off and on. Eventually his mind grew loose and flippant. When the rest of the ship had quieted down and the combination of alcohol and the ocean’s steady rocking lulled him into carelessness he let himself picture the three of them again and the happy times the memories evoked. And then, inevitably, he remembered the times with just James, his stoic lieutenant, so charmingly pessimistic and critical of his every thought and yet so enamored with him at the same time.

How fucking *amazing* it had been to break down his barriers, to see James McGraw at his core and to realize that he too, had changed because of their relationship.

Thomas heaved the bottle of rum back and let a long draught of it burn its way down his throat and to his stomach, punishment for his indulgence.

That was what it had all come down to, wasn’t it? Punishment for indulging in his own happiness. He laid his head back and tried to pinch away the tears that formed in his eyes. Idly he wondered again how far it was to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. 

V. Into the woods

 

When they neared Charlestown’s docks even Thomas was impressed. It was no London or Boston, but it nonetheless appeared to be a booming little area, chiseled out of a green carpet of forest that stretched out endlessly behind the town itself. As they dropped anchor and prepared to off load Thomas saw another ship was heading towards them; a very large ship. Were those Spanish-style crosses? Vaguely he wondered about it. There was no war with Spain now, yet its appearance here was unexpected. He pushed it from his mind and disembarked with Vincent.

As soon as his feet hit solid ground Thomas felt marginally better. He did well enough at sea, but he doubted he could ever have been a sailor.

Yet even here, as they made their way to an inn, Thomas felt the same disconnect from the hustle and bustle around him here as he had on the ship. The faces of the men and women seemed surreal, their words and their lives completely meaningless to him in a way he hadn’t even realized until the meaning was gone.

They paid for a single room at an inn for the night. Thomas needed Vincent to do reconnaissance of the area and to locate Ashe’s estate. It was too dangerous for Thomas himself—back from the dead—to show much of himself around town. Vincent still needed some prodding. He looked at his brother with constant worry. Thomas found himself growing impatient with him despite knowing he should not be. Yet being this close to the man who had ruined his life made him feel cruder, colder. He had no doubt he would take satisfaction from Peter’s death and any who stood in his way. He didn’t really believe in Hell so he worried little about going there should he himself die.

He imagined himself being reunited with Miranda and James in the afterlife, but it was only a passing fancy because he didn’t really believe in any afterlife. He was jealous of all those who could take comfort in such an ideal, to be reunited with loved ones. He would kill Peter, and that would have to do.

Vincent spent the next few hours around town while Thomas readied himself in their room. He checked and double checked the pistols, making certain they would fire and practiced his aim. He sharpened his knife until he could barely touch it with a thumb pad and the blade produced a prick of blood.

When there was nothing left to do or to think about he pulled off the gold ring from his small finger and read the words etched onto the inside circle over and over again:

Love always, J.M.

His hands began to tremble. If he had not already exhausted all his tears in Bethlam the past ten years he would have cried some more. As it was he stilled himself, raising the ring to his lips.

“I’ll avenge you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

Vincent returned shortly. Peter’s house was not far off, perhaps half a mile to the north. They would pay for a carriage and pay extra for the driver to leave it to them for a while. Vincent would drive him to the estate. Even unannounced, once Thomas presented himself with his full title he knew he would gain an audience.

He slept off and on, his thoughts conjuring up images of deep sea creatures that were said to exist beyond the reach of sunlight in the ocean. He remembered the old myths and superstitions, many of which James had told to him. No matter what course his thoughts began on they always wound themselves back to his former lover. In the days leading up to their discovery there had been little else of consequence to Thomas. The three of them should have been able to stay together, to build a life together. If he hadn’t been so damn persistent…

Could’ve. Would’ve. Should’ve.

Guilt blackened his heart as much as quiet rage burned it. He fell asleep eventually, clutching the gold ring to his lips.

VI. Back from the dead

 

“Lord Thomas Hamilton, here to see Lord Ashe.”

The servant who greeted him at Lord Ashe’s door blinked twice, briefly looking him up and down. Thomas was no longer dressed as an upper class gentleman, but neither was he dressed cheaply. Vincent had insisted he must look at least presentable if he were to be allowed inside without question. That meant a gentleman’s wig and coat, at the very least. He wore riding boots and leggings instead of shoes and stockings, to appear as if he’d been traveling for some time.

Now, Thomas smiled and nodded slightly, trying to remember his manners.

“He’s not expecting me,” he added, “But if you’d be so kind as to tell him I’m here, I’m certain he’ll wish to see me.”

The servant nodded curtly and without a smile. Before he shut the door Thomas caught a glimpse inside, where a guard was just inside the door. He felt the sweat break out on his neck and palms as he waited. His heart pounded loudly in his chest. His fingers grazed his waistband on each side for the hundredth time, relaxing a miniscule amount when he felt the hard steel beneath it. He looked behind him, where Vincent sat in the carriage seat. They would need to make a hasty escape. Vincent’s complexion was absolutely pallid and he looked as if he were going to be sick.

How strange, Thomas thought, that he himself should still be more or less calm. He was nervous, but it was born of concern that he wouldn’t get his chance to kill Ashe. Thomas swallowed, feeling as though he were inhabiting Lord Hamilton, son of Alfred Hamilton, in body only; a shell of the person he was becoming.

The door swung open again. The servant was there, and directly behind him was Peter Ashe. The moment his eyes alighted on Thomas they went wide. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing was forthcoming for a long moment.

“Hello Peter,” said Thomas with a terse smile.

The servant was growing suspicious.

“Mi lord, do you know this man? Shall I send him away? Mi lord?”

At last Lord Ashe recovered enough to answer.

“N-no, Cedric. That will be all.”

Peter’s steel blue eyes never moved from his own. Thomas held his gaze, clenching his jaw tight enough to ache. Still he managed another smile as Cedric left them. Peter stepped back from the door wordlessly. Thomas came in, glad that Peter ignored his carriage and brother setting outside. Still, Peter’s hand stayed on the doorknob after he closed it, gripping it tightly. He looked as pale as Vincent had been.

“How can this be?” said Peter. “I thought you were—”

“Dead? Yes well, I suppose after so long with no word that would be the logical conclusion,” Thomas said coldly.

A hurt look flashed behind Peter’s eyes at his words. Peter took a deep breath and removed his wig. Thomas did the same. Then Peter smiled and offered his hand. The smile was forced. Thomas shook his hand and Peter pulled him into an embrace.

“My God! It’s really you, Thomas! In the flesh! Come into my study.”

Thomas followed Peter, taking note of the many rooms along the way. He felt his rage begin to boil. Peter had done quite well for himself, indeed. No doubt the money helped him to forget about the former friends whom he betrayed.

Once inside Peter’s study Thomas went through the motions. This moment seemed as surreal to him as all the others before it; one long procession of expected motions to get to the next moment and the next.

He shared a brandy with Peter while he recounted how Vincent had helped procure his release.

“How on earth you were stuck in that place for so long is beyond me,” said Peter. “Your father was cruel to do that, if you don’t mind me saying.”

The grave understatement made Thomas want to laugh. His right hand stayed wrapped around his glass while his left wondered to the insides of his coat and to his waistband.

“Yes, well, my father had help from Admiral Hennessy, you recall. To get rid of James.”

Peter blinked.

“No, I don’t think I knew that. How dreadful.”

“Dreadful, yes,” said Thomas. “Vincent and I also believe there was a third party involved…”

His fingers touched the pistol, finding the grip. Just then Cedric the servant came into the room, looking flushed and worried.

“What is it?” asked Peter.

“Sir, Colonel Rhett is here. He’s accompanied by a pirate and a woman. And your daughter.”

Peter stood abruptly. Thomas blinked. What was this?

“Is it Charles Vane? What does he want?” Peter asked, eyes wide again.

“No, mi lord,” Cedric stuttered out in anxiety. “He claims to be Captain Flint. And he claims he only wants to speak with you.”

“Flint?” Peter looked taken aback. “It was supposed to be Vane.”

Peter’s eyes fell down, darting around in his head. Thomas could feel the air in the room suddenly charged with energy he wasn’t certain he liked. Whatever was going on here it clearly was a surprise to Peter. Ashe looked back up after a moment and addressed Cedric.

“Tell the colonel to bring them inside.”

“But sir…!”

“Tell them! I want to see my daughter. Now!”

“Y-yes sir!” Cedric stammered, and took off down the hallway.

The instant they were alone again Thomas rose and pulled out his pistol, cocking it and aiming it at Peter.

“It was you,” said Thomas. “You were the one who betrayed me to my father.”

Subtle panic filled Peter’s eyes.

“Thomas, please! Wait a moment!”

He should have pulled the trigger then and there, but the front door creaked open, followed by heavy boots. There were too many other eyes. Thomas took a few steps backward, barely taking his eyes off of Peter. He leaned back so he could see down the hallway. There was a young girl. His daughter? And behind her, flanked by two guards, was the man and woman Cedric had spoke about. Framed by the bright, white light coming in from the door behind them he could barely make them out, but the woman…the woman…

Thomas’s breath caught in his throat. Peter moved out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t!” Thomas shouted and Peter froze. Thomas looked back down the hallway as the procession made its way in their direction. Fuck.

Thomas made his way around Peter’s desk and to the door behind it, pistol steady in his hand. Peter backed away from, hands up.

“Breath a single word of my presence or do anything even remotely suspicious and I’ll pull this trigger without a second thought,” Thomas said.

Peter nodded slowly, regarding his old friend with newfound fear. Thomas opened the door, still facing Peter, and slipped through, keeping the pistol aimed. Peter stared at him through the tiny crack in the door until his latest guests had arrived. Peter left the study to meet them. Thomas strained to see them, to catch another glimpse of…

Christ. It *was* Miranda, or he was already dead and had joined her in the afterlife he thought had not existed. Of the two possible options, he could see no reason to believe the latter had occurred.

The man at her side he could not make out from the narrow slit he’d allowed himself. Peter ushered the young girl—his daughter—into the study. Thomas watched as she embraced him. Peter said her name over and over. Ah, yes. Abigail Ashe. She had been just a slip of a girl when he’d last seen her. And she was with his wife. Alive. Miranda was alive! Hot tears stung his eyes and he felt himself begin to shake. Thomas forced himself to be still. Peter glanced directly over to him. Thomas re-aimed the pistol, fighting through his emotions and the tidal wave of questions roaring through his head. It was clear Peter and Abigail had been separated for some time and it sounded as though she’d been held against her will. By pirates?

“You must not harm them, father,” Abigail was saying in earnest. “Lady Hamilton is just as I remembered her. She has taken care of me throughout my voyage here and has been a great comfort. And you must not harm her partner, Mr. McGraw. I’m told you and he were friends.”

It seemed that Peter was only slightly less shocked than he was at this news.

“Christ Almighty.”

The words slipped from lips just barely. He choked on them, fighting back a fresh wave of nausea. James was here also? What the hell was going on?


	3. Chapter 3

VII. Vices and virtues all

 

Lord Ashe held himself with a stoic and rigid air, looking from himself to Miranda and back again with obvious mistrust.

It had been a long time since James had been around his kind. He didn’t miss it in the least. While he and Miranda gently laid the framework concerning their purpose behind their visit, James struggled not to let himself slip into Flint. Yet it felt undeniably strange speaking softly and civilly to someone other than Miranda. The longer he spoke with Peter the more he realized how far away from his former life he truly was. He didn’t begin to relax until he and Miranda were in guest quarters while the house readied for dinner. Even then he felt uneasy.

He had always prepared for multiple situations and made certain he was never defenseless when he was leading his men but now he lacked both of those elements. All he had left was the thing that had yet to be stripped away from him: His ideas and how to persuade others to believe in them.

Dinner was no less tense than his time here so far. In fact the idea of “joining” Lord Ashe for a formal eal was ludicrous to him. One wrong move and the damnable Colonal Rhett would shoot him dead. He sensed Miranda’s unease about the situation as well. He knew, however, this appearance of civility made Peter more comfortable and so he suffered through it. Luckily, for his part, Ashe was warming to his plan. James knew it only required a bit more patience. Even so, it had been a shock to hear Peter’s proposal on how England was going to listen to him.

James had thought about finding an excuse to tell the world his story many times over the years. He wished he could pound sense into the thick skulls of those who had condemned him, to show them he was a man just like them, vices and virtues all. But did Peter really believe he could do such a thing and not be condemned all over again?

His mind churned around all these though in a few minutes as he stood facing away from them at the dinner table. In the end, it all came down to just one question: What would Thomas have wanted?

That sealed the deal for him. He was about to shake hands with Lord Ashe when Fate decided to change his course in one fell swoop.

The clock. Even before Miranda had finished explaining her question about it James knew. The longer he stared at it the more he recognized the damned thing. His mind was flooded with the sights and smells of the Hamilton household.

VIII. Waiting

 

Thomas had struck a deal with Peter after faced with the revelation that they were still alive.

As soon as James and Miranda left Peter’s study and Peter had shut the door Thomas had emerged. Despite the aching his entire body felt at the need to rush into Miranda’s and James’s arms he forced himself to remain hidden until they had left. His plan had proven exceedingly simple once he had realized it. There would exactly two possible outcomes after today. Either he was leaving this place with James and Miranda by his side or none of them were.

He never lost sight of Peter. For the next torturous hour Peter was trapped within his study, to frightened to signal for any kind of help while Thomas had his pistol trained on him. Yet Thomas spent that hour in sheer terror. Perhaps Peter had found a way to tip off the suspicious servants that came in to check on him. Perhaps the stone-cold Colonal Rhett somehow knew; Thomas detested that one and his dead-eyed gaze.

He could not stop sweating. He could not stop the tremors in his hands, fingers cold and slick and eventually aching against the steel of the pistol. Yet somehow he was still undiscovered and alive at the end of an hour, when it was time for dinner.

IX. Flesh and blood

 

The damned clock. The true weight of Miranda’s words finally struck him harder than any chime. He felt his chest constrict as Miranda’s voice rose. James looked at Peter with fresh eyes and felt something black rise up in him.

She was shouting, he realized. He hadn’t heard Miranda make a sound like that since the day they had lost everything. And it paralyzed him with indecision.

Everything, everything hinged on this meeting and it was unraveling with horrifying clarity before his eyes. He didn’t see Colonel Rhett at first appear at the double doors to the room. Instead he heard one click of a pistol hammer, instantly followed by another. When his eyes caught up to the sound James was certain he’d somehow already been shot and killed.

He’d always felt haunted by Thomas’s ghost, but was something vastly different than speaking metaphorically. The spitting image of Thomas Hamilton stood in the doorway, a few feet behind Rhett. He had a small, hand-sized pistol aimed at Rhett’s head, and the colonel—goddamnit—had his pistol aimed at Miranda.

“Thomas, no,” Peter shouted.

It shattered whatever half-dazed trance James had fallen into. If Peter could see the ghost…

Miranda’s voice hitched across from him.

“Thomas,” he whispered.

The specter of Thomas actually turned towards her, then to James. Everything seemed to shift and tilt around him. He had to catch himself on his feet, suddenly feeling weak.

“Put down the pistol Thomas, please,” Peter now begged.

“Step away from the governor,” Rhett demanded, not moving and not lowering his weapon. Miranda made some small movement.

“Don’t move,” James said, eyeing Rhett with as much hatred as he could muster.

“Drop your pistol sir,” came Thomas’s voice. It was hard and demanding but James recognized it, shocked all over again to hear him speak and confirming that he himself was, in fact, still very much alive.

Colonel Rhett’s jaw tightened at Thomas’s words. James watched his fingers flex over the grip of the pistol. If there had been any obfuscation about Rhett’s job here James knew now that he was to protect Lord Ashe.

“Please, wait,” said Miranda, voice laced with weak desperation. Cold sweat coated James from head to toe. He turned to Peter, who was slowly edging around the table towards them.

“Call him off,” James demanded, jerking his head towards Rhett. “Call him off now, or I will kill you, him, and every last person in this house if he shoots her.”

Peter was still stoic, though James could see his own desperation through the cracks.

“I cannot,” he said. “Not until…Thomas, please,” Peter asked again. Of the three of them, he was appeared not remotely surprised to see the blonde lord. James’s eye twitched. He looked back to Thomas, who was staring at Peter with furious blue eyes.

“You knew,” he whispered as his words stumbled right over this new epiphany. “You knew he was alive,” James clarified.

Peter’s eyes darted anxiously from James to Thomas to Miranda.

“I…I did not. Not before today,” said Peter quickly. “A scant two hours ago, I swear it.”

James felt as though his heart were going to thump out of his chest. He looked back to Thomas, whose attention seemed torn. Rhett took another firm step towards Miranda.

“Stop!” yelled Thomas, echoing his movement. Rhett sneered coldly at him.

“Shoot at me and face certain death,” he said.

He turned back to Miranda, who was looking at James with barely concealed terror.

He could not let this happen. Let Rhett shoot him. Then Thomas could shoot Rhett.

He moved a step towards the colonel, who quickly swung his weapon on James, then back to Miranda, his attention suddenly divided. James took another step. Rhett’s pistol swung back to him.

“One more move and I’ll be forced to—”

Thomas’s pistol went off. Rhett jerked forward as a splash of crimson shot out from his head.

“No!” Peter shouted over the sound of Miranda’s scream which she stifled with a hand over her mouth.

James turned to grab Peter, intending on subduing him as quickly as possible. He jumped, startled, when instead another shot crackled in the air, hitting Ashe in the chest.

Thomas had produced another small pistol. James looked at him standing there, chest visibly heaving and pistol still aimed at Peter’s fallen form as white smoke cleared from in front of his face.

In the next second Miranda was in his arms. He embraced her protectively. Neither of them were looking at each other. Their undivided attention was trained on the figure across from them, the specter who was not a specter, his sapphire eyes looking back at them in wonder.

X. Salt

 

There was no time for awed, half-formed words, or to answer the question he heard Miranda mutter, “How?”

The pistol shots had been heard by at least some of the housekeeping; distant screams proved that much.

“We must hurry. There’s a carriage waiting,” said Thomas to both of them. Them. There they were, his wife and lover, in each other’s arms. Even in the midst of all the chaos Thomas could sense a deep change to them. James’s appearance alone indicated that, but there was something else about them that spoke of the immense time away from him.

Gingerly Thomas approached them, unsure how to proceed, how to get them to realize it was truly him. Once he was within arm’s length it was Miranda who broke away from James to go to him. She collided into him and he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead, suddenly feeling light-headed, pulse pounding in his ears.

“It’s me, I’m here,” he whispered, overjoyed at the feeling of his wife’s warm body against his, of the smell of her hair and the sound of her sobs. He looked past her to James and his heart nearly fell apart all over again.

James still looked spooked, those jade eyes he had come to know so well now like two deep wells of unfathomable depths, filled to the brim and looking at him in shock.

“We must go. Now,” Thomas heard himself repeat.

A moan from the other side of the table caught his attention. Peter. Still alive.

“Wait,” said Miranda.

“Miranda, there’s no time,” Thomas urged, but he watched as Miranda crossed the room to the table. She picked up the small container of table salt and knelt next to Peter, who was bleeding out all over his expensive and imported Persian carpet. Without further ado Miranda took off the top of the salt and shook out half its contents over Peter’s chest wound.

Thomas watched, shocked, as Peter’s body reared up and he screamed. Miranda rose and dropped the salt, staring down at him until James came over and gently pulled her away. Miranda blinked, seeming to come back to herself.

“Come on,” said Thomas, heading towards the door. “More guards will be here any moment.”

They made their way through the house, frightening two house maids out of their wits. One male servant looked as though he were going to attempt and fight them until James balled up his fists and shot him a look that sent him running in the other direction.

They crossed into the main hallway and were almost to the front doors when Abigail Ashe appeared. For reasons not immediately apparent to him Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. Oddly enough Miranda and James did the same.

“Did you kill my father?” she asked, voice soft like a dove’s yet strong.

“Yes,” said Thomas.

Abigail’s hazel eyes processed this, dropping to the floor momentarily. Thomas approached her, with Miranda beside him.

“I am sorry Ms. Ashe,” he offered as gently as he could. “He left me no alternative.”

Miranda hugged her as though she were her own child, asking for her forgiveness. Then Thomas spurred them on, hoping against hope that the child would not raise the alarm after them.

For reasons also unknown to him, he felt that she would not.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I'm trying to post the rest of this before season 4 starts, so this is the second to last chapter. This didn't turn out as angsty as I had wanted, but I can never make the angst last between this ot3; it's just not in me.
> 
> ...Don't forget to leave comments at the sound of the beep.

XI. Some sort of navigation

 

Vincent still awaited them outside Peter’s estate. He announced that a guard standing outside had heard the shots and had run off but that no one else had been alerted to his knowledge. Peter’s mansion was set back away from Charlestown proper, and Thomas figured they had precious few minutes before a force of some men made its way to them.

Vincent spurred the two horses on to a gallop once all three of them were inside the carriage, heading west past the plantation fields and onto a smaller dirt road, then off the road altogether as per Thomas’s earlier instructions. It was just after dark, a fact that Thomas had been counting on as well. As long as they made it out of the town without being spotted the chances of being found in darkness were slim. That also meant, of course, that they were travelling practically blind. Vincent had been told of a widower who lived out this way and who was known for her kindness for those seeking aid. Thomas had his doubts but it was all they had.

Once it seemed they were out of immediate danger, Vincent slowed the horses to a canter and everything else seemed to calm down as well so that now Thomas once again faced companions in the seat across from him. 

He explained his return from the dead, as it were. He touched only briefly on this time in Bethlam and mostly to speak about his correspondence with Vincent and his release. He made certain they understood the lies his father had spread, probably with the help of Peter. Miranda held his hands most of the time and Thomas was grateful. The contact slowly became familiar again.

As for James, his shock seemed to have worn off, but he still looked haunted, looking Thomas up and down. Thomas did recognize the meaning of the scowl over his brow, which meant he was thinking furiously. Thomas wanted nothing more than to make contact with him, to touch him and to prove his realness but he sensed that James would not fully welcome such an advance. Instead he spoke softly, “James, please, say something.”

James swallowed, looking out the window instead of meeting his gaze.

“I’m grateful to your brother for his help. What’s the plan from here? We can’t keep going towards the interior.”

“No,” Thomas said when James said no more. He tried to hide his dismay and utter disappointment at the deflection. “Neither Vincent nor I know this land. We will need to turn around once we’re certain we’re not being followed. Vincent was told of a widower who lives a few miles outside of town. If we can find her we can stay there for the night.”

Still looking out the window, James said, “You’ll need some sort of navigation or you’ll get lost. Do either of you know how to read stars?”

James glanced at him, his voice nearly flat. Thomas shook his head.

“No. Unfortunately I didn’t account for much past this point. I was focusing on getting to Ashe.”

James nodded, looking back out the window. Though he looked shockingly different than the man he had once known Thomas could still sense when James was keeping parts of himself wound up tight and away from the light of day. He was scowling, jaw tight.

“That was your plan all along, then?” Miranda asked him now. Thomas blinked, realizing he was staring at James. Her voice washed over him like a sweet rain, her face open.

“Yes,” he replied. “I wanted to kill him. There was never any other option. Even if I had not suspected him in exposing us, suffering Bethlam Hospital was enough. I knew the earl was dead long before I was released, so it was Peter who became the object of my ire.”

This news had an effect on both James and Miranda, who exchanged looks.

“Am I missing something?” he asked.

“Thomas,” said Miranda, taking his hands in her own again, “There are things you cannot know that we can tell you.”

XII. A matter of reality

 

Thomas took it all in with varying degrees of surprise and awe. Once or twice he looked at them in what James knew was some measure of fear and disbelief. One of those looks came over him when Miranda recited the tale of killing Alfred Hamilton.

James hadn’t been able to meet his gaze at all then; he was scarcely looking at Thomas as it was. Thomas was constantly waiting for the eye contact, and James saw the concern flicker in those blue-jewel eyes so that he had to look away again, afraid to face…what?

Having Thomas sitting across from him in the carriage, alive and well, told him he’d done everything wrong for the last ten years. Thomas had been fucking *alive,* going through God knew what in that asylum, and all the while he’d been surrendering his soul to the devil thinking his lover dead.

James closed his eyes and fought back another bout of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. John Silver’s voice echoed in his head, twisting around his chest like heavy chains: “The things you’ve done…”

Suddenly everything became surreal and confining. The carriage grew hot and a wave of inexplicable panic gripped him. This wasn’t right. How could Thomas be alive? He was going the Hell a lot sooner than he’d planned.

“Stop,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

“James what is it?” Miranda asked him, brows knotting in concern.

“Just…stop the carriage. Now.”

His hand was on the handle, opening it even as Thomas pounded on the carriage roof to get his brother’s attention. The moment the horses slowed James jumped out, stumbling out into the dark of the Carolina wilderness.

He quickly made for the trees, away from his companions and wretched up what was left of Ashe’s dinner into the bushes. He leaned heavily against a tree trunk, trying to slow his heavy breathing. His eyes had teared up and he wiped them roughly with his coat sleeve.

“Are you all right?”

Miranda was behind him. James turned and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Naturally she took that to mean the opposite and came up beside him, hands curling around his arms as James stepped them away from his mess in the bushes.

“I just…I don’t know what to think,” he finally said, voice sounding a little ragged to his ears. “He’s here. He’s really here. And what the fuck have I been *doing*, Miranda?”

She was already hugging him tightly and James leaned into her embrace, wishing she wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in his hands.

“Never mind that now,” she said, pulling back and holding her palm against his cheek. “You—we—did what we thought was necessary. I know what it is you worry about because I’ve thought of nothing else either. But Thomas is Thomas, James. He will forgive you.”

James felt everything rising up from inside him, including some choking, painful thing he rarely allowed loose but that now he could barely hold back.

“He *shouldn’t* forgive me,” he said, keeping his voice low because he knew it would crack. And that was the newly formed truth of it. He had never had to answer to anyone for what he did as Captain Flint, least of all Miranda. She understood. He had thought judgment from Peter Ashe would be the worst. But Ashe’s sense of morality had just been proving lacking, and now there was Thomas. Even if Miranda was right and Thomas forgave him his sins, James could never again be James McGraw. It was a matter of reality he knew to be true, so that even the shock of having Thomas back again could not make it falter.

He had Thomas back again. James let himself revel in that knowledge, trying to center himself again.

Thomas was making his way over to them. James disentangled himself from Miranda but she stayed shoulder to shoulder with him anyway.

“Is everything all right?” Thomas asked, looking from one of them to the other, perhaps with more concern than what was warranted, which forced James’s eyes away again.

“I’m fine,” he replied. “Just tired, is all.”

“James.”

Miranda spoke his name quietly but not quite softly. It was a small admonition over the lie. He felt both their gazes drift to him.

“I say, shouldn’t we be pressing on?” came Vincent’s shout from across the path, cutting through the silence around them.

“Just one moment,” Miranda called back, flicking them each a glance before hiking up her skirts and returning to Vincent, saying something about men needing to relieve their bladders.

The silence that followed her absence stretched on. James finally dragged his eyes up to look at Thomas, who stood awkwardly, fingers playing with the gold ring on his small finger. It was a habit James had picked up from him.

“I’m sorry,” he offered at last. “I know I’m being…difficult. But…”

He trailed off. Thomas opened his mouth to speak but swallowed instead. He gave James a rueful smile and looked down at the ground, shaking his head as if in defeat.

Damn it all.

Devoid of anything to say in the moment James instead reached out and took him by an arm, pulling him back into the cover of the trees and tried on a light hug for size.

He felt it when Thomas’s body seemed to sink into his, arms coming up to embrace him.

“God, how I’ve longed for you,” Thomas said.

The choking, painful thing in James’s chest surged upward into a wet sob. He fought against it.

“Thomas.” He breathed out the name, clutching even tighter to the other man, feeling Thomas’s body heat against his own in the cooling night.

“I’m here,” Thomas said in a whisper right against his ear that made James jump slightly. He pulled back so he could look in Thomas’s face. Thomas was touching his cheek, his beard; eyes moist and still disbelieving.

A tear fell off James’s cheek and onto Thomas’s hand. Well fuck. There was nowhere to run to and he couldn’t suppress these feelings any longer so he hugged Thomas to him, this time burying his face into the crook of Thomas’s neck and shoulder, fingers winding their way through his hair. He felt Thomas sigh heavily against him.

“My James,” he muttered. “My love.”

“Shh,” James sobbed out, pulling his face back for air and panting heavily against Thomas’s neck. Thomas had wound his arms underneath James’s coat, gently stroking his back. Now they came back out to touch his face again. It felt beyond wonderful and yet everything in him seemed to ache more because of it. He wound his fists into Thomas’s shirt collar as the panicked feeling returned.

“It’s all right, I’m here,” said Thomas, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “And we will not be separated ever again.”

James looked up sharply at him through blurred tears. Surely this was all just a dream and any moment he would awake to the rocking of the Walrus or to Miranda’s soft humming in their bed in Nassau. And even if it was not…

James tilted his head slightly to level it with Thomas’s taller frame and pressed his lips against Thomas’s. He tasted warm salt. Thomas let out a deep hum and chased after James’s lips when they pulled away. Before long they were kissing one another with all the urgency the moment deserved and then some. Yet just when James’s tongue began to slide along Thomas’s the voices of Vincent and Miranda drifted towards them. They broke away reluctantly. James felt light-headed. Vincent’s voice came to them closer this time and more urgent.

“We need to get moving again,” he panted out.

“Yes of course,” agreed Thomas.

They returned to the carriage. It was only when Thomas casually slid his hand out of James’s to speak to his brother that James noticed they had been holding hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! In which James and Thomas finally get a quiet moment to re-form their bond. I was a bit torn with having smut in this because I know in reality they would probably still be a ways off emotionally to have sex, but like I said I didn't want this to be another epic tale lol. And after watching 4x01 and all the drama on tumblr I need this more than ever.
> 
> Enjoy. And kudos/comments would be swell. :)

XIII. All the things left unsaid

 

They found the widow’s house with some lantern light and a little luck. It wasn’t far from the road but it was tucked away behind a group of pine trees, hidden well enough that without light and knowledge of its existence none would find it.

The woman was wary of the three strange men at first but then she saw Miranda. Miranda had turned on her charm full force so that the woman was persuaded to let them sleep there for a night. She had only one extra bed in her small cabin to offer. It didn’t take long for Thomas to convince his brother to take it and that he himself would be perfectly fine with a makeshift bed set up in the woman’s barn. He did so alongside James and Miranda, who had presented themselves as a married couple to the woman.

The barn was larger than the cabin itself. The only livestock still housed in it were some chickens. After she and James had cleaned and cleared it, it proved to be almost cozy.

Despite their stroke of luck at having avoided capture and having found decent lodging, James still felt as though he was in a waking dream. He fell asleep alongside Miranda, while Thomas slept across the single room out of a necessity to keep up appearances. It was quite possible the woman would decide it was in her best interest to “check” on her guests at some point and see to it they were not planning on robbing her blind or worse.

It was some time in the middle of the night when James startled awake. The night was perfectly still, save for crickets. The air had a nip to it, much cooler than the balmy nights of the Bahamas…

James bolted upright, peering in the dark across the room. He’d jostled Miranda slightly with the sudden motion but she didn’t wake.

His heart was thudding fast in his chest as he carefully left the worn mattress and blankets thrown over some hay and walked across the room. The dim lantern light Thomas had kept lit still burned, yet James did not breathe easier until he could make out Thomas’s sleeping form behind a stack of hay. He sighed, letting his shoulders relax. He pushed the barn door open enough to squeeze through it and into the night, where he let out a much shakier sigh.

So this was no dream.

He relieved himself and took a moment to gather his wits, which had been lacking ever since Thomas had appeared inside Peter Ashe’s house. Across a field he saw the widow’s cabin, dark and quiet. He shivered, wearing only a pair of gray breeches and his shirt, but he let the cold creep over him for another moment before turning and squeezing back inside the barely-warmer barn.

“James?”

James startled, finding Thomas standing in front of the lantern. James stepped closer to him.

“I woke and saw you were gone,” said Thomas. Something fearful under his voice made James bite his lower lip hard. He was not used to feeling this way anymore, to being around another person who inspired more than Miranda’s worn comfort or Silver’s tense familiarity or Eleanor’s necessary friendship. He was starting to realize just how much time had passed between them, and it hurt.

“I drank too much of the widow’s tea at suppertime,” he said quietly, trying to smile.

Thomas’s lips twitched upward but his eyes still looked pained. Here, in the darkness, James felt some of his misgivings fade. They were more or less alone. Miranda still slept across the room. James took a few strides until he could lean against a wooden beam, very close to Thomas. He felt emboldened suddenly, driven forward by a marrow-deep and powerful longing he had thought long dead but that was now suddenly churning inside him, alive and wanting.

He dug his fingernails into the wood of the beam, staring hard at it.

“It’s been very difficult,” he started, then cursing himself when he choked on the rest of it. Thomas was standing loosely beside him, so close, and yet James did not know how to reach him the way he wanted.

“It’s been difficult just living there,” he started again, swallowing hard. “For both of us. And whatever it is you must think of me, there is a reason for most of it.”

His vision suddenly blurred with tears. What the fuck was this? James bit his tongue hard and wrapped his palm around the sharp, square shape of the beam.

“I just don’t want to you be driven away because of what I am now,” he continued. It felt like swallowing fish hooks. Thomas was standing in front of the lantern but James knew he could still see his face. He wanted to turn away. He wanted to spin around and suddenly became Lieutenant McGraw again, if only in appearance so Thomas wouldn’t have to see whatever disturbing, twisted image of that man before him now.

James glanced up at him through his brows. Thomas reached out and touched the shoulder closest to him. James followed the motion as though it were torture, then stopped breathing altogether when the hand very slowly came up to his cheek.

“You could never drive me away. Not ever.”

It wasn’t the soft or gently firm voice he’d come to love. It was a hard and unyielding voice, the voice that matched the face of the Thomas Hamilton who had shot a colonel and a lord without hesitation, without so much as a blink of regret only half a day earlier. Yet it was still full of something James recognized, something that made him sigh and lean into the cool palm against his warm cheek—it was full of honesty.

The tear streamed down his face before he could wipe it away and Thomas lightly grabbed his shirt and pulled him into a kiss before James quite knew it. He moaned audibly, his pulse quickening. Thomas’s lips were warm and dry, his mouth hot and wet. Like a dying bud responding to rain he opened up, tongue probing inside Thomas’s mouth, still hesitant but insistent. Thomas responded in kind until James felt his hands at James’s waist, pulling him closer. James broke away just long enough to swallow or lick his lips before attacking Thomas’s mouth again, this time letting his lips wonder over the smooth contours of Thomas’s jaw and the very edge of his neck. When Thomas bent his head slightly back James immediately dived lower, sucking and nipping over his Adam’s Apple and lower until Thomas’s fingers were sifting through his hair, wanting purchase. He moaned. James returned to his mouth and Thomas kissed him with a ferocity that set his skin on fire.

They stumbled back to Thomas’s bed, stopping only when Thomas’s back hit the pile of hay next to it. He had both hands on either side of James’s waist, fingers and palms pressing against every bit of skin he could find under James’s shirt.

James pushed Thomas’s shirt up until he exposed a nipple. He sucked at it, earning a sharp gasp and then a moan from Thomas. Thomas pulled him up to his mouth once again and their kisses became more urgent, more desperate. James could not get enough of Thomas’s skin. He finally yanked Thomas’s undershirt over his head, dragging his fingers all along Thomas’s hard chest and tight stomach. All that sinew and flesh and muscle sang to his rhythm and grew heated under his touch. Thomas’s fingers pushed further inside James’s breeches. He pulled on them roughly so that his groin was now flush against Thomas’s, who had pinned himself between James and the hay.

James moaned, vaguely reminding himself that Miranda was also in the barn. He tried to stifle himself; he had only ever made much noise when the two of them were reaching their climax in love making. Never before had he wanted to unleash so many little noises before, but Thomas felt like a drug, and the more he touched and kissed the more he felt the last ten years were a series of horribly prolonged withdraws.

Thomas’s fingers dipped down fully inside his breeches, tantalizingly close but not touching him. James broke away, panting loudly into Thomas’s mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and realized with dizzying clarity how hard he was. Oh, now this was torture. His body ached with raw need, his blood singing.

Thomas’s hands suddenly stopped and withdrew. James’s eyes popped open.

“Perhaps,” Thomas panted. He swallowed, looking as though he too were trying to steady himself. Even in the dim lantern light James could see his flushed features, the wet of lips and the tiniest gleam of sweat on his chest. “Perhaps this is too much, too soon. We…we could wait.”

James’s entire chest felt as though it caved in at his words.

“No,” he found himself muttering. “No. It won’t take long. Please. I can’t…I cannot…”

He lost the words and bit off a stifled groan instead.

He had never learned to articulate himself around Thomas. Everything had always been so searing and intense. It would have been easier to weep. Luckily Thomas could still understand all the things left unsaid.

Thomas was kissing him again, thank God. He was jerking James’s breeches down with renewed vigor until his cock bobbed out, fully hard. He watched Thomas moan at the sight. He wrapped his palm around it and starting pumping. Sexual heat shot through James’s body. His mouth went dry.

“Thomas,” he rasped. He pressed his mouth hard against Thomas’s, fingers curling themselves absently into Thomas’s shirt and holding on for dear life.

Thomas fisted his cock into a steady rhythm that had James unable to hold back his moans. His damp forehead was pressed against Thomas’s, eyes squeezed shut. Precum leaked from his slit and Thomas pulled his fist tight over his head, moving faster. James swallowed and parted his lips, breathing hard. Thomas’s tongue teased his own gently as his hand sped up ever so slightly, rubbing James’s precum along his shaft. His other hand pulled James’s scrotum down and James shuddered all over.

“Look at me.”

Thomas’s voice, raw and thick and demanding.

James opened his eyes and groaned at the sight. Thomas’s blue eyes were thin rims against the black of his pupils, lips red and glistening. James felt the pressure in him ready to spill over any minute. He panicked, suddenly unsure. He uncurled his grip on Thomas’s shirt and pressed back against him.

“I’m going to…”

“Let it go, James.”

Again James was shocked by the hard tone of Thomas’s voice, so unlike the man he’d known and yet so *familiar.* He heard anger in the voice. Bitterness coupled with lust, resolve driven by need. Well fuck.

James clung to Thomas’s shirt again, bucking his hips forward and driving his cock into Thomas’s palm until Thomas was barely moving his hand at all and James was fucking into it hard and fast. He kissed Thomas as he came, trying to stifle the sound that exploded from his deep in his throat. He pushed his cock up against Thomas’s belly and Thomas held him tight, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck with the other milked his cock through the last of it.

“I’m sorry,” James huffed out, breathless. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“Shh. No.”

More kissing followed, and James gladly shut up. Then he dropped to his knees and heard Thomas gasp just before he pulled out Thomas’s cock and wrapped his mouth around it.

“Oh, God,” Thomas muttered. He was deliciously thick and fully erect in James’s mouth. James savored the warmth, the length and the girth of Thomas. He pulled off enough to run his tongue along Thomas’s slit, tasting salt there already. Thomas’s breath hitched. James looked up at him. Thomas’s brows were drawn back, an almost sad expression on his face. His fingertips grazed along James’s jaw and chin. James slid his mouth down Thomas’s shaft again, taking him down until the head of his cock touched the back of his throat. He pulled off and repeated the motion, causing Thomas to moan uncontrollably.

“James,” he warned as his breath grew short.

James pulled off and used his hand to pump Thomas’s now slick cock, then used his mouth again. It wasn’t long before Thomas was nearly there, his chest heaving and his head thrown back. James fisted what wouldn’t fit into his mouth with his hand, pulling Thomas as fast as he could, until Thomas’s mouth hung wide open and he groaned low and long. James took some of the come down. He pushed the rest of it back along Thomas’s cock, working it until Thomas half collapsed back against the hay.

XIV. Epilogue

 

When Miranda awoke the next morning she did not panic when James wasn’t there.

She sat up, taking a moment to get her bearings again. Given the fact that she had not been disturbed in the night she assumed nothing unforeseen had happened. The barn was as it was the evening before, minus James’s presence. Her next inclination was to look across the room. The stack of hay blocked most of her view, save for the outlines of what she assumed were Thomas’s feet.

Miranda stood and walked across the wooden floor, plucking out strands of hay from her hair and off her nightgown borrowed from the widow. As she rounded the haystack her breath caught in her throat. Thomas was leaning back against his pillow, half-way sitting up, with James fast asleep against his chest. James’s hand rested loosely over Thomas’s chest.

Her sound stirred him and he opened his eyes. He hadn’t been asleep. A slow smile crept over his face at her gaze. Miranda raised her hand to her mouth, tears forming in her eyes. Wordlessly she leaned against the wooden beam and gazed down at James. Thomas followed her eyes, smiling down at the sleeping pirate captain.

“We’re going to be all right,” she said with a smile.

***


End file.
